


don't give up (it's a little complicated)

by Word_Addict



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hugs, Hurt Peter Parker, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker has ADHD, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Word_Addict/pseuds/Word_Addict
Summary: Well, it’s not a complete disaster for his first mission, Peter figures. He’s stuck under a pile of rubble that used to be a building, and there’s a piece of rebar sticking uncomfortably into his shoulder as well as a decently heavy chunk of concrete on his chest, but it’s not worse than when the Vulture collapsed his warehouse on him.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Peter Parker, May Parker & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 338





	don't give up (it's a little complicated)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: injury, blood, and description of a panic attack. I think that's all but if there's something else I should tag, please tell me.
> 
> Title from "High Hopes" by Panic! At the Disco

Well, it’s not a _complete_ disaster for his first mission, Peter figures. He’s stuck under a pile of rubble that used to be a building, and there’s a piece of rebar sticking uncomfortably into his shoulder as well as a decently heavy chunk of concrete on his chest, but it’s not worse than when the Vulture collapsed his warehouse on him.

“Hey, is anyone there?” he asks anyway, because the small space is bringing weird itchy sensations with it that he’d rather avoid.

“We’re kind of busy, kid,” Clint says, sounding a little out of breath. “Can it wait?”

“Yeah,” Peter answers, ignoring the uncomfortable feeling crawling up and down his spine, because there’s no blood and nothing _feels_ broken.

He shoves away the prickly feeling that’s growing on the back of his neck and focuses on his breathing. Natasha had shown him the breathing exercises once during training and he used them a lot now, not only because they were really useful, but because Natasha was super cool.

All the Avengers are super cool, for that matter. He really doesn’t feel like he should be allowed to hang out with them, but, hey, if they really thought that they’d tell him. Right?

_“Congratulations, kid, you’re one of us.”_

_“Really?” Peter asked, looking at Mr. Stark. He could usually tell when the billionaire was joking, but this time he looked unusually serious._

_“Absolutely,” Steve answered. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a polo shirt instead of his uniform, but something about him made Peter want to salute anyway. “Welcome to the Avengers.”_

_“Whoa,” Peter said. Something told him he should be saying something back, but he couldn’t think of anything. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Stark.”_

_“You earned it, kid,” Mr. Stark told him with a smile._

He hadn’t been allowed to go on missions, though, not for a few months anyway, Peter reflects. It had still been awesome hanging out with his heroes nearly every day, training and doing science experiments without having to worry about equipment costs or budget cuts.

There’s a roar from the Hulk pretty close to where he is, and the vibrations shake the concrete just enough that it starts to hurt from where it’s pressing on his chest. _Hey, Big Guy, could you move a little further away?_ Peter wants to ask, but he’s focusing on taking slow, even breaths too much to talk.

He doesn’t know what’s really happening out there – some up-and-coming villain tried to open a portal to another world and instead summoned some freaky looking _Ender’s Game_ type bugs – but it sounds like the team’s doing okay.

“Is anyone free?” he tries again.

“Yeah, I think I have this just about wrapped up,” Tony says. “Where are you, Pete?”

That’s a good question, and Peter has to think about it. “Um,” he says, trying to remember what the last street sign he saw was. “Maybe just look for the collapsed building?”

There’s a shriek of metal on rock as another slab of concrete slides sideways, and Peter can’t suppress a muffled curse as his entire left arm starts to feel like he just smacked his funny bone on something. “I think I was by a park?” he offers, gasping as he sucks in another careful breath.

“Kid,” and Mr. Stark is starting to sound like he did when he took the suit away, “ _where_ are you?”

Peter tries to think through the tiny voice that’s started to suggest that maybe he’s imagined it, that this is like when the other building collapsed, that Mr. Stark really isn’t there and he should start to panic. “The second floor?”

“Peter,” and now there’s a second voice on the line, and it’s Natasha also sounding serious, “are you under the building?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, panting a little from the knowledge that there’s a giant chunk of cement looming over his face that’s suddenly re-asserting itself. Squeezing his eyes shut, he imagines he’s outside where he can breathe normally and that his arm isn’t entirely numb.

There’s a string of curses from Mr. Stark, some of which Aunt May would ground Peter for a month if he said. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” he demands.

“I – I don’t know,” Peter blurts out, ignoring the whispers of _see, he’s mad, you can’t do anything right, not even being a hero_ that are getting louder in his mind. The dust is starting to pick up, and he tries to stop from coughing when he can’t anyway without nearly cracking a rib.

“We’re here,” Natasha says, her voice gentle now. “We can get you out, Peter, just keep breathing.”

 _Okay._ He can do that; he can keep breathing. In and out, in and out. It’s easy – at least it should be – it should be the easiest thing in the world. But it’s not, it’s not easy at all, with the pressure on his chest and the crawling up his spine and the growing certainty that Mr. Stark won’t really get him out, that he’s back under the warehouse with no one and no suit and –

Peter’s panicking, he knows he is in some distant part of his mind, but he can’t stop. He can’t breathe already, and now he’s crying. There isn’t enough oxygen, he’s hyperventilating and he _just can’t breathe_ and his vision’s going fuzzy.

“Kid,” Tony’s talking to him and Peter knows he should stop crying long enough to answer but it’s impossible right now. “Kid, just keep breathing. You don’t have to talk, just listen to me. Focus on my voice.”

Peter tries to say yes and it comes out as sort of a hiccup.

“Remember the new design for those web shooters?” Tony asks, keeping up a one-sided monologue over the faint sounds of scraping and grinding Peter can hear.

He’s still crying, but his breathing has almost started to even out and the constant stream of talking from the other side of the comm has helped ground him. _It’ll be okay,_ he tells himself sternly. _Everything will be fine._

Through the comms he can hear distant sounds of shouting – Thor, maybe? The Hulk’s rumbling voice comes closer, and the concrete on Peter’s chest vibrates in time with the footsteps. It slides sideways, not much, but enough, and presses against the rebar. There’s a sickening _crunch_ and a wet noise and Peter feels like throwing up because, yup, he’s impaled.

He must make some sort of noise, because Tony’s monologue stops. “Pete?” he asks. “What’s happening?”

Peter opens his mouth to answer, but there’s metal in his shoulder and tons of stone around him and he’ll probably die a part of this building the Avengers aren’t going to be able to do anything and he’s –

“ _Peter_. _Breathe.”_

The words snap him out of his spiraling thoughts, and he sucks in a breath. It’s not large, but it’s the most he can manage. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, noticing the spreading stain on his shoulder.

Tony’s laugh is a little strained, like he’s trying not to panic. “Kid, don’t apologize for anything,” he orders.

There are more faint shouts and then a few _crashes._ “We’re moving this rubble,” Natasha says, her tone business-like. “The piece you’re under is next.”

“Okay,” Peter agrees. He feels like his words are a bit slurred, but his head’s a bit fuzzy and he can’t really tell.

She says something else, but it’s getting quieter. Is his comm going? His shoulder has settled into a steady rhythm of pain, and Peter can manage that, he can breathe through it. His chest is another story – the block of cement seems to have gotten heavier and Peter doesn’t really know what broken ribs feel like, but he suspects at least one of them might have cracked. His legs seem to be fine, but that’s not saying a lot at the moment.

His comm is on the fritz entirely now, because he can’t hear much of anything going on. Mr. Stark is saying something, it almost sounds like _push,_ but one of his arms is immobile, and the other one is – well, actually, the other one is fine.

Taking as deep of a breath as he can, Peter braces his good elbow against the ground or whatever he’s lying on, and he pushes upward as hard as he can. It’s heavy – not as heavy as the ceiling in the Vulture’s warehouse, but he’s also only using one arm lying on his back – but Peter closes his eyes and pretends he’s doing a one-handed bench press in the Tower’s gym.

He feels like puking even more than he already did, and his vision’s going fuzzy again. His comm’s still out, but he can distantly hear Mr. Stark yelling and Natasha cursing in Russian and Thor shouting. Suddenly, something gives and there’s more breathing room.

He gasps for more air, nearly losing his hold on the concrete, and, yeah, he’s pretty sure he can feel something in his chest moving where it isn’t supposed to.

There’s more cursing over the comm. “Kid, _what are you doing?”_ Mr. Stark snaps, his voice somewhere between angry and surprised and more than a little horrified.

“Pushing,” Peter explains, the word somehow difficult to shape in his mouth.

There’s more curses, but this time Peter would almost swear he can hear them from his comm and also from just above him, and then another force is pushing the slab of rubble to the side. Luckily, it’s to the side where his arm doesn’t have rebar straight through it and it slides off pretty easily only scraping up his hand a little bit.

Peter sighs in relief, his vision starting to grey again even worse. “Thanks, Mr. Stark,” he slurs again. _That was getting really heavy,_ he thinks.

“ ** _Peter!_** ”

Mr. Stark’s shouting is the last thing he hears before everything goes black.

*

It doesn’t last for very long, at least it doesn’t _feel_ very long, but by the time he’s able to see and hear again he’s lying on the street. He blinks a few times, adjusting to the sight of blue sky instead of grey cement.

It only takes a couple seconds before the sky is replaced by red and gold. “Kid, what were you thinking?” Mr. Stark asked, still in his suit. “You could have been killed, hell, you almost _were_ killed!”

“Tony,” another voice says, quiet but firm. “Stop.”

Peter blinks a few more times, trying to arrange his thoughts properly. “What happened?” he rasps, looking around. His shoulder still hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt and the rebar – Oh. It’s gone. It’s gone and Peter can’t remember why it’s gone. “ _What happened?”_ he asks again, even though it feels like he’s speaking around sandpaper.

“We got you out,” the other voice says, and Peter realizes it’s Natasha speaking. “We’re calling in a Quinjet and you’re going to the hospital,” she explains as she takes his pulse, first at the neck and then at his wrist.

Peter knows he should be more upset about that but the only thoughts he can focus on right now are _pain pain shoulder hurts ow Mr. Stark hurts still can’t breathe._ “Thanks,” he manages, even though it sounds like he’s talking through a mouthful of gravel. “For getting me out.”

Clint appears just inside his line of vision, arms crossed and mouth set in a hard line. “No thanks required,” he says, and if Natasha’s voice is firm, his is iron. “We should’ve gotten you out sooner.”

A tiny voice inside Peter’s head agrees with Clint, but it’s drowned out by pain and the much louder flood of self-deprecation. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, closing his eyes against the now too-bright sky.

“ _No,_ it’s not,” Clint and Natasha say in unison with Mr. Stark.

Peter attempts to smile and brush off the sentiment, but his shoulder hurts too much and he suspects it turns out looking more like a grimace. Anything he wants to say is choked out by the wave of pain that rises when Natasha starts gently prodding his rib cage. “Ow,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Natasha mutters, half to herself. “At least two broken ribs, maybe more cracked.”

There’s a string of muffled curses from Mr. Stark. “When’s the jet getting here anyway?” he demands.

“ETA is five minutes,” Clint answers and this time both Natasha and Mr. Stark curse.

Peter suspects it might be because he’s having trouble hearing again. It’s probably a good thing he’s already lying down, he decides as he opens his eyes and immediately shuts them because of the fuzzy picture that’s still so bright it hurts.

“Stay with us,” Natasha says from far away, and from her it doesn’t sound like a request but an order.

“Okay,” Peter agrees, or at least he tries too. Somewhere along the line it gets messed up and comes out as a single pear-shaped vowel.

He tries again, but by then it’s easier to just let go back into the darkness, so he does.

*

He’s staring at Mr. Stark again when he wakes up.

“Hi, sir,” he tries to say, but the words don’t come, and he slips back under.

*

He wakes up twice more but doesn’t stay awake for very long. Aunt May is there once, with Mr. Stark, and the last time he sees Ned and Michelle, but he can never force his mouth to say anything to them.

*

Peter finally wakes up for good. There are white bandages wrapped securely around his shoulder and ribs and the palms of both hands are covered in mostly-healed scrapes. 

Beside his bed, Mr. Stark is asleep, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and ripped jeans, the clothes Peter remembers him wearing in the lab before the alert came in and he put on the Iron Man suit.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter tries, and it sounds more like a cat coughing up a hairball than words, but Mr. Stark’s eyes snap open anyway.

“Hey, Pete,” he says with a thin smile. “Decided to join the world of the living?”

Peter shrugs as well as he can. “For now, I guess,” he jokes back. Everything is either stiff or outright hurting, but something about being awake this time feels different and more permanent, so he can’t complain.

“Wait,” Mr. Stark sits forward. “You can hear me?”

Peter nods, deciding against talking for the moment since his throat feels like someone took a glass blaster to it, and then the last thing he could ever imagine happens.

 _This isn’t a hug,_ Mr. Stark had told him months ago and in the months since then that hadn’t changed. Ruffling his hair, sure, even a side hug once or twice, but that was all. Tony Stark hardly hugged anyone and Peter wasn’t an exception to that. Until now he was.

With a choked gasp that almost sounded like a sob, Tony lurches forward and gathers as much of Peter as he can touch into a hug. It’s a little uncomfortable and a little awkward, but Peter doesn’t complain, because honestly it feels really nice. He pats Tony’s shoulder with his good arm and if he can feel his shirt dampening he doesn’t say anything.

After one of the longest hugs Peter can ever remember getting, Tony pulls away and sits back in his chair. “It’s been four days,” he says in answer to Peter’s unspoken question. “ _God,_ Peter, you’ve been out for _four days.”_

“How’s May?” Peter asks croakily.

Tony grabs a cup of water from the nightstand and hands it to Peter as he answers him. “She’s getting by,” he says. “She had to work, otherwise she’d be here now.”

That doesn’t surprise Peter, with the price of rent compared to his aunt’s wages these days and he tells Tony as much. The water feels great on his throat and Tony practically has to take the cup away from him after a minute.

“Slow down, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Peter leans back on the bed and stares at his bandages. Part of him is grateful that he’s here, but a bigger part of him has been agonizing over the cost of being in the hospital for this long. He scrapes his teeth across his lip anxiously and frantically tries to do the math of how much all of this will cost in his head.

“Kid?” Tony asks after a minute. “What’s up?”

Staring at his hands wrapped in white bandages and resting in his lap, Peter shrugs. It’s not like Mr. Stark would understand anyway – he grew up never having to worry about things like bills or overdue payments or calculating exactly how many groceries to buy every week. “It’s nothing,” he mumbles.

“If it’s the hospital bill, don’t worry about it,” Tony says after a minute, and Peter’s pretty sure he hears his neck pop with how fast he snaps his head around to stare.

“Thank you,” he mumbles again, suddenly tired again.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony says, his voice soft. “Get some rest, kid.”

*

Peter gets out of the hospital after another four days and goes back home, a temporary ban on patrolling put in place, though he’s still allowed to come around to the Tower.

“Where’s Mr. Stark?” he asks on the third day of him sitting in the lab with Dr. Banner, doing his science homework.

“He’s working,” Bruce says, not looking up from his microscope.

Peter hums a little in confusion, bouncing his foot off the rungs of his stool. “Okay,” he agrees, going back to his biology notes. There’s a buzzing from his phone on the table beside him and he picks it up, unlocking it to see a text from Aunt May.

_When are you coming home? It’s after five._

Peter yelps a little, shoving his things into his backpack. “I’ve got to go, Dr. Banner. See you tomorrow,” he says all in a rush as he dashes out of the room probably faster than he strictly should.

*

He swings home – he’s late and it’s not like he has many options – and it takes a toll on his shoulder. Peter figures Aunt May _has_ to know from the way she’s looking at him, but she doesn’t say much. When he crawls in the window, she just tells him supper’s ready through the door.

“You know I love you,” she says over supper.

“Yeah, of course,” Peter answers. Why _wouldn’t_ he know that? It doesn’t matter how many villains he fights or how much the Avengers like him, he’ll never leave Aunt May. Mr. Stark is the best, and the SI labs are _awesome,_ but Peter couldn’t and wouldn’t ever leave Aunt May alone. Ever since Uncle Ben died, it’s been just the two of them and there’s no way Peter would trade that for anything.

“It just worries me,” Aunt May continues.

Suddenly worried about where the conversation is going, Peter fiddles with his cutlery. Maybe it’s not Mr. Stark he should be worried about taking the suit away, but Aunt May. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, not really listening to the conversation. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Peter, it doesn’t matter how careful or safe you are, I’ll always worry about you,” Aunt May says. She stops, looking down at the table. “And, look, I know you have powers now, but – “

“It’ll be okay,” Peter cuts in. He isn’t sure about that – no one can totally predict outcomes with a hundred percent accuracy – but he injects confidence into his voice.

“I know,” Aunt May sighs. “Just, promise you’ll do your best not to get hurt.”

Peter promises, ignoring the worry in the back of his mind. _I’ll just get better at angles and stuff,_ he tells himself. Besides, no one’s taken his suit away or banned him being an Avenger. Really, it’s a positive outcome here.

The rest of the night is peaceful, and Peter does his best not to think about anything. It mostly works until he’s lying in bed. Staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him, Peter can almost feel his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. Ordinarily, he’d consider sneaking out the window and taking a nighttime swing through the neighbourhood, but his shoulder is aching too much to consider it. Closing his eyes, he sucks in a breath and tries to tell himself it’s okay, it’s all fine, no one is mad, no one is upset.

It almost works.

*

Peter waits until Saturday to head back to the Tower. He spends time with Ned and Michelle, catches up on the homework he missed, and doesn’t head out on patrol once. Aunt May is impressed, and Peter almost lets himself feel happy about it.

It nags at him a little, the thought that he could be out on the streets helping to take down criminals, but he still can’t rotate his arm all the way around, so he calls it a draw.

When he gets to the tower, no one except for Clint is on the main floor. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and Peter wonders if he’s ever seen him out of uniform before. “Hey,” Clint says. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good,” Peter says, shrugging his good shoulder. “Is Mr. Stark here?” He’s not trying to be rude, but it’s been a while since he’s heard anything from the Tower and even before that, Dr. Banner had told him Tony was busy. “It’s just, y’know, been a while since I’ve heard anything about him and I just want to know – “

“Gotcha,” Clint says after a short pause. “Look, it’d probably be best if you weren’t – “

“I’m not going home,” Peter interrupts, too worked up to feel bad.

Clint frowns. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s not?”

“Nah,” Clint leans against the wall. “I’ll level with you, there’s probably a reason you haven’t heard from anyone, but it’s not because Tony’s hurt.” He pauses for a moment, like he’s trying to find the best words to use. “That fight, it really affected him, y’know.”

Peter sucks in a breath, the fight draining out of him. After he’d gotten out of the hospital, he hadn’t even thought about how Mr. Stark and the rest of the team was doing. _If you’re going to be part of this team, you’d better start acting like it,_ his thoughts scold. “Sorry,” he apologizes. “I got kind of distracted.”

“What?” Clint asks, frowning again.

“I got distracted,” Peter repeated. “I didn’t think – sorry.”

“I mean, yeah, you ended up with a damn _building_ on top of you,” Clint says. “You don’t get a three-ton rock on your chest by concentrating.”

“What?” Peter’s mouth drops open. “What’re you talking about?”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know? That last piece of concrete weighed just under three thousand pounds.”

“Oh,” Peter mumbles.

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Clint says, standing up straight. “You can see why Tony’s a little upset,” he says over his shoulder, heading back into the kitchen.

Peter barely notices him go. His thoughts are spinning inside his head. _Three tons. A whole building._ The only thing that doesn’t make sense is where Clint’s comments about Tony come into the picture. _What does Mr. Stark have to do with this? He didn’t look hurt when I saw him in the hospital. Is he upset about the damage? Superheroes probably shouldn’t go around collapsing building when they fight._

“Hey, you doing okay?” Clint asks, walking back around the corner holding a pop-tart.

“I’m fine,” Peter says. “Just – I don’t get it,” he says to himself.

“Get what?”

“Did anyone else get hurt?” Peter asks, ignoring the question. “I forgot to ask before, but Dr. Banner didn’t look very good the last time I saw him.”

Clint rubs his forehead, muttering something to himself. Peter hears the words _worse than Steve,_ before the archer looks up. “Everyone’s okay,” he says. “Like I said, Tony’s not hurt.”

“Okay,” Peter murmurs. There’s still something bothering him, like a number that doesn’t fit into its proper spot in the equation. “Can I see him?” he finally asks. “Mr. Stark, I mean. Dr. Banner said he was busy, but it won’t take long.” He looks at the clock on the wall. “Really, it won’t. I need to catch the bus today.”

“I can try and find him,” Clint offers, “but I can’t promise anything.” He waves towards the couches. “Sit down while I look, it might take a minute.” He stops just before he walks around the corner and turns to look at Peter. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Peter. We should have noticed you needed help the first time around.”

Peter sits, looking at the clock one more time. _Sorry, Aunt May,_ he apologizes silently. Before he can forget, he texts her and explains he’s staying a bit late at the Tower today.

He can hear someone shouting from at least a floor away, but he can’t make out any words or a distinctive voice. The sound dies out, and he wishes again that he had something to distract him. His phone buzzes – a thumbs-up emoji from Aunt May. Not even the clock makes any noise, and Peter starts swinging his leg. Whatever’s taking Mr. Stark so long, he hopes it isn’t bad. He reminds himself that Clint said Tony was okay, but he can’t shake the feeling of something being wrong and it being his fault.

He sighs, trying to put together his conversation with Clint. Mr. Stark was okay, but the fight did something to him, which might have been Peter’s fault.

Peter groans, burying his face in his hands. _Next time,_ he promises himself, _I’ll be more careful._ Would there even be a next time? The thought hits him like a bucket of cold water, and the worries that had been running through his head during the fight come back. Will he be kicked out of the Avengers for good, Mr. Stark telling him to get out and not come back?

“Kid?” Tony stands in the doorway, leaning on it like he needs it for support.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Hey, Pete,” Tony says. There are dark circles under his eyes and Peter figures he probably slept in his clothes, but Clint was right.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks anyway, stopping himself from a hug just in time. “You’re not hurt, right?”

Tony laughs dryly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve survived worse.” He pauses for a moment, looking at Peter. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine,” Peter answers truthfully.

“That’s good,” Tony says after a few seconds.

Peter waits for a moment and then, when neither of them say anything, asks, “I, uh, I noticed FRIDAY’s offline. Is something wrong?”

“Just updates,” Tony says dismissively. “She’ll be back up and running in no time.”

Peter fidgets, trying to find the right words to express what he’s feeling. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks finally. “I know the fight didn’t go well, and, um, Clint said it was affecting you. I forgot to ask how you were doing before, so sorry about that. Sorry about the building too, I know that’s probably not what heroes are supposed to do.” He finally realizes he’s rambling and stops talking.

“Kid,” Tony says, “what in the hell are you talking about?” He waves a hand in the air. “No, actually, let’s sit down. This is going to take a while.”

The sit down on one of the couches, and Peter starts over. “So, um, I came over a few days ago and Dr. Banner said you were busy and I wasn’t able to come over to the tower but I didn’t hear from anyone. I thought maybe something was up so I came over, and I ran into Mr. Barton and that’s when he told me about the fight and I realized I never asked if any of you were okay, and that’s not what a teammate does, right – “

He stops talking when he notices the look on Tony’s face. _This is it,_ he worries, _here it comes._ Wondering why he ever thought any of this was a good idea, he stays quiet, trying to ignore his cresting worry.

“Peter,” Tony says, sounding like he’s choosing every word deliberately, “you were in the hospital.”

Peter groans. How did he forget _that,_ too? The hospital bill, Mr. Stark making sure it was taken care of, how did he forget to say thank you for that? He starts to apologize for forgetting that, but Tony keeps talking.

“You’re worried about us, about me, about the goddamn _building_ – Peter you could have _died_.” Tony’s voice breaks on the last word.

The last piece slides into the puzzle, and Peter understands. “Oh,” he mutters. “You were worried about me.” It’s blindingly obvious now that he thinks about it, and he wonders how he didn’t see it before.

“Kid,” Tony starts, his voice cracking a little. “I have – we all have a responsibility for you. And, then, you ended up under a building with a three-ton rock on your chest and – “ He pauses, dragging a hand down his face. “It just puts things in perspective,” he mutters.

Wondering if that last part was intended for him, Peter starts talking again. “But I’m okay,” he says. “Really, I am.”

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Anyone that can lift almost three thousand pounds of concrete from flat on their back is someone who doesn’t have to worry most of the time,” he agrees. “But, it’s more than that, Pete. It’s about you and – and – “ He trails off.

Peter nods, twisting his fingers together in his lap. “Thanks,” he says. “For caring so much about me.”

Tony smiles at him. “’Course, Pete.”

This time, Peter is the one to initiate the hug. He leans over and puts his arm around Tony, secure in the knowledge that yes, he’s cared about, and no, everything’s fine and he doesn’t need to worry. It’s nice, and Peter doesn’t mention it when he hears Tony sniff above his head.

“You should get home,” Tony says after a moment.

 _What time is it?_ Peter checks his phone and sighs. “Yeah, I missed the bus.”

“The bus?” Tony asks.

“Yeah, I still can’t really swing all that way.” Peter explains, rotating his arm experimentally. “It should be okay in a couple days.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair. “Well, the least I can do after getting into that fight is drive you home.” He stands up. “C’mon, I’ll let you pick a car.”

Peter follows Tony to the garage feeling like a wall between them has come down, just a little. “Hey, Mr. Stark,” he asks, already texting Aunt May whether it's okay. “Do you want to stay for supper?”


End file.
